A Midsummer Masquerade
by Quiddities
Summary: A cracktastic little tale about a crazy shin-dig at the Ambervale.


This is in response to a challenge Kissy (kissychan1101) and I decided to engage in over the summer, spawning from a mutual love for our favorite Rozarrian.

It took until now to publish, but it is my holiday gift to you all. Should you like it, leave a review, or better yet, go read Kissy's fic, too!

* * *

Ashelia B'nargin Dalmasca did not like surprises.

Which is why it was with pursed lips and an impassive expression that she turned over the envelope given to her, finding an intricately limned design of looping curves and stylized briars depicting her name. Penelo, who had arrived at court after several months of absence, breathless and jubilant, to see this urgent missive delivered to her sovereign, could not wait any longer to see it opened.

"Quickly, Ashe! I think you'll like what it's about," she said, cheeks aglow.

She looked down. The design and peculiar texture of the paper meant the letter could have only one location of origin. She allowed herself a single moment to breathe in the scent of the letter, to confirm her hunch. She inhaled. Wild rose and cedarwood. Gods above, must Al-Cid always bathe his letters in his cologne?

"Very well," Ashe said, sliding a deft finger underneath the wax seal and cracking it open.

If traveling together had taught Penelo anything about her Queen, it was how to read the stoic glances and microscopic muscle movements that flitted across Ashe's young, tried face when she calculated an important strategic decision. The contents of this letter, however, concerned a different sort of stratagem than Penelo was used to, so her eyes were fixed on Ashe's eyes swishing back and forth, line to line. After reading it again, just to be sure, Ashe folded the letter and gently placed it on her desk.

Ashe glanced sidelong at Penelo, knowing full well what the young pirate wanted her to say.

"Would that I could say no, if only to see how he would react," Ashe mused, idly rubbing a finger over the edge of the Rozarrian parchment.

"You wouldn't!" Penelo cried suddenly. "Not after I've been invited, too! You don't expect me to go alone with _Vaan_, do you, as sole representative of Dalmasca? A fine pair we'd be around all those nobles, with all the pirating we've done these past months...imagine the conversation without you! 'How are you getting along these days?' 'Well, your grace, we emptied out twelve tombs in the last three months, with plans to get to your great grandfather's next week!' Oh, an enlightening conversation _that_ would -"

"Pen," Ashe cut in, calm in her sea-gray eyes, "of course I'm going to go."

Penelo let out a breath she didn't know she was holding in. "Yes, well. Good."

Ashe and Penelo regarded each other. She could feel another question about to escape Penelo's lips, but catching Penelo steal a quick glance at her dress told Ashe all she needed to know.

"I'll have my tailors see to our needs," Ashe said, twisting her lips into a wry smile as Penelo near broke to tears at the though of being dressed by royal tailors.

"And Vaan, too? I think he's long overdue to start wearing shirts that aren't glorified vests."

"But of course," Ashe said, reaching for a paper to write to the tailor, "and you forget - no one need know your profession. It is, after all, a masquerade."

* * *

"Pen, I'm dying," Vaan wailed, fidgeting with his collar. His hand moved absentmindedly to scratch the back of his head, which he did almost by default, but the intricate ribbon keeping his mask in place made it difficult to run a hand through his hair.

"Hush. And for the last time, keep your mask on!" Penelo chided, slapping his hands away from anything he could potentially ruin before they made their introductions. They had flown there, but had stopped just outside the expanse of the grounds to board carriages; as it was royal property, it was considered impolite to allow airships such direct access. She and Vaan were in one carriage; Ashe followed in another, to keep it unclear that she was royalty.

"_Dying_." Vaan repeated, now concentrating on the multitude of ruffles suffocating his wrists. He knew that masks came off eventually, but he vaguely wished his costume could come off, too. Realizing he had no change of clothes other than his absurd outfit, he made a defeated noise and rested his hands upon his knees. Death by ruffles, then.

Penelo let out a dreamy sigh as they rounded the corner and began the final part of their approach. Vaan looked at her. She was wearing in a richly woven dress of many different hues of yellow; in the coach light, it seemed the colors of golden poppy and tangerine. The tailor decorated her bodice with small mirrors and had sewn in beads; here and there golden ribbons braided into her hair shimmered when they passed a lamp lighting their path.

She caught him staring.

"Penelo, you look..." Vaan started. He sought something perfect to say, something with meaning, with intention. But the minds of lads who look at the things they find fascinating can sometimes render them less than eloquent. And Vaan hadn't much of a reputation for being particularly well-spoken to begin with.

"...like a chocobo," he blurted out.

"_WHAT?_" Penelo cried.

* * *

Ashe, meanwhile, gazed at the vast expanse of Clan Margrace's home, now coming into view. It was called _Ambervale_, and she had been there once before. True to its name, it gave off a delicate amber-colored luminescence as its lamp lights reflected the brownish-yellow tinge of the palace walls. Built upon a hill, its imposing silhouette of towers and high walls bathed in the carmine-tinted sunset. When she had visited, Al-Cid had called it a safe-haven for his family with clarity and tenderness in his voice. What part would he play tonight - earnest host, or gamboling ladies man?

She hadn't time to contemplate the answer, for when the carriage came to a firm halt and she stepped out, hand given to her escort, she turned to face the carriage behind hers and found Vaan and Penelo, on the ground, wrestling.

In front of the entirety of House Margrace.

* * *

The word he was looking for, Vaan decided, was _resplendent_. That would have really impressed Penelo. It would have made her blush and smile and forget that Vaan wasn't one for flowery compliments. He wasn't Balthier; he couldn't bend wills with words or make women's hearts tremble with Archiadian-bred mannerisms. Instead, his blunt comment had made them fight, made them fall out and practically somersault like Dalmascan tumbleweed at the heels of Clan Margrace.

He was just lucky his mask stayed put. Lucky that no names were being announced. Yet he didn't feel as if luck had any kept any such notions of kindness after the door to the carriage had opened. As soon as they disentangled and shook off the dirt from the gravel, Penelo, taking masquerade protocols of anonymity to the extreme, had acted as if she and Vaan had never met. Sadness and embarrassment and raw emotion took her then, and she raced up the stairs and out of sight.

* * *

Basch fon Ronsenburg felt more at ease at the Margrace's Masquerade than he had felt in ages.

He was, after all, incredibly good at wearing a mask.

Glass in hand, Basch stood ensconced in a corner keeping a watchful eye on Larsa as he was mercilessly fawned over by various female members of the Rozarrian noblesse. Larsa's costume was elementary, so as to belie his status, except for a meticulous mask covering his eyes, nose, and brow. The contrast worked; the ladies had no idea that the boy they were coddling was the leader of the Empire that had almost engaged their own in all-out war before he had assumed power.

"His skin, how fair it is!" one of the ladies with particularly toned skin cooed behind her mask. She wore a jeweled necklace of considerable weight, held aloft by her equally considerable bosom.

"Like alabaster!" another marveled.

Basch finished his glass and, in the milliseconds it took to look across the room for a place to set it down, suddenly found himself with his drink refilled. He forgot to ask what it was, but this … this _something_ swirled down his throat with zest and left a sizzling trail in its wake; it was like Bhujerban Madhu, but where the Madhu was heady, he imagined this as having the taste of fireworks. The rhythm of the dancers, the ebb and flow of their doublets and costume gowns intertwining and the beat of the song made Basch's head swim languidly about the room. He almost missed such frivolity. He could admire the costumes and the revelry from afar. His distance was his safety, though his eyesight was beginning to play tricks on him. He almost thought he saw a male Viera, for example. Yes indeed, he wouldn't mind standing in this corner and getting pleasantly and blissfully smashed, provided Larsa didn't wander. He turned a lazy eye to Larsa, who was being remarkably good humored about things, actually - then again, the respite was probably equally welcome for the young boy. Was that Rozarrian woman undoing the knot at the top of Larsa's tunic?

Basch would have moved closer to see, but a hand casually slid its way onto his shoulder.

Basch nearly dropped his glass, but kept his drink aloft only through what can be called the sloping grace of a veteran soldier.

"I know you," a voice said, close enough that warm breath hit against Basch's jaw. A man in a steel colored mask adorned with deep blue filigree patterns was seemingly _there_, had slipped in like a shadow, inches away from him, and Basch wanted to gently move out from beneath his arm, but the party had put him in _such_ a good mood, and the hand resting on him felt _so_ comforting, and goodness, could he please have more of this _wonderful stuff_?

"Beg your pardon?" was all Basch said, trying to keep his wits together, which seemed to him at the moment like stopping a bunch of marbles from rolling down an incline. He looked at the man again; he had the build and features of a Rozzarian, but other than that, his doublet wasn't telling of anything at all besides a fine tailor and an affinity for cobalt blue cloth.

"A typical greeting one uses in a room full of disguised guests," the man chuckled, "you've never been to one of these fêtes before, have you?"

"I have not," Basch said, glancing back at Larsa, relieved to find the boy still had his shirt on, "yet I can't say it isn't without its surprises."

"Then you are enjoying yourself! Splendid!" The man had a broad, maddeningly knowing smile. "Or perhaps it is the drink that you enjoy more?"

"Aye, mayhap. Makes men more charming, women more beautiful..." Basch mused in jest.

The man observed him quietly beneath his steel-tinted domino mask. He was close now, breaching unspoken space, and Basch became more and more mindful of it.

"Perhaps, my friend, you mean that backwards? There are beautiful men aplenty," said the man, too near now to focus upon properly. The music seemed far away, a weak melodious echo about his ears, and his blood beat louder and quicker. Basch felt the man's gloved finger upon his brow, just gracing the tip of his scar that crept above the edge of his mask. He released the smallest of shivers as the expensive fabric of the glove touched the one unrefined and savage mark on the rest of his unmarred features. He closed his eyes, chest heaving, insides aflame with liquor and heat.

The next moment, he opened his eyes and found himself unmistakably and irrevocably alone, still in his corner, still holding drink in hand, and still watching his charge (and his charge's admirers).

Basch blinked, confused. He resolved not to drink any more for the evening, lest more apparitions with roaming fingers appear.

Beneath his mask, his scar itched like the devil.

* * *

Somewhere, amid the guests, a man stood with his business partner. He held his madhu glass with an elegance he couldn't have abandoned if he wanted to (and he _had_ tried). He looked at his companion's costume for what must have been the hundredth time that night and smirked in the same way he did for the other ninety-nine.

"I should like to play a game," he said. He brought a ringed hand to his face and traced it along the length of his mask to make sure it was still in place. It was, of course.

"Oh?" she responded. Her mask and hair twitched thoughtfully, though only those with the keenest of eyes would have noticed. A trail of vines and wildflowers that began at the left edge of her mask wrapped up the front of her hair, which was designed in an elegant and extravagant vertical coif. "Do tell."

"Find the most expensive thing here," he said, raising his glass and sipping it delicately, "and take it."

"I thought we were on vacation," his partner remarked.

"I think the readers will like it," he responded, dropping his glass carelessly. It just so happened to fall right on to a passing servant's tray. He smirked again.

"Very well," she replied. Her hair twitched again.

* * *

Penelo stood apart from the dancers and musicians, her hands pressed against the cool marble of the wall behind her, her heart beating with a continued mix of longing and excitement. She had over-reacted, but the splendor of the hall and party kept her on edge. She felt on the cusp in so many, many ways - at the party, in society, as a girl chasing the last remnants of adolescence. Lightness and darkness were still shaping her. Lamps burned and incense tickled her nose; surrounding the dancers and party-goers, she noticed tapestries of Rozarrian landscapes, figures in history, and mythical tales hanging upon the wall.

To the side of the burning lamps, she sidled along one of the grander tapestries which depicted a battle from hundreds of years long past. It was fought without airships, but with men, swords in hand, slaying one another for the sake of glory and country. Their armor was the color of midnight; silver threads shone and glinted off of the soldiers' swords, giving them a metallic luster, even in the form of cloth.

Enchanted by the depth and age of the textiles, it took Penelo a good minute to realize she was staring right into the eyes of a real man rather than a woven one.

The slightest of squeaks escaped her lips, barely audible above the din of the room. She took an uncharacteristically clumsy step back, but the man took a step forward in response.

"I'm sorry!" she heard herself say, trying vainly to stop the spread of a blush forming across her cheeks.

"You stare at the scenery but do not partake in the scene," he said. The man's accent made it sound like a question, like a challenge.

Penelo felt the lamplight of the hall on her face and glanced behind her at the other attendees.

"Not sure this is entirely my scene," she said candidly.

"She who stays in the shade cannot hope to ever bloom, sun princess," he said, regarding her thoughtfully.

"Sun princess?" she echoed.

The man let out an amused sigh and tilted his head to the side.

"Ah, to be so unaware of one's beauty. I was merely speculating as to the nature of your costume," he said.

She could feel the man's eyes upon her, but did not feel violated; it seemed as if he was regarding her as a piece of art, a bit of tapestry made real, as she had been doing minutes before. The mirrors inlaid on her bodice were reflecting light onto the man's doublet. It made parts of him flicker. Despite this, he seemed so present, so _there_, and quite a bit taller than she was. Gazing down at the flowing amber and saffron forms twisting down her skirts, Penelo then looked back up, trying to peer deeper into the man's face than his steel colored domino mask would allow.

"Thank you. I suppose it could be. It's the nicest comparison I've heard so far, at least," she said, thinking of Vaan. She wondered what he was doing.

"Enough talk. Shall we attempt to _make_ it your scene?" This time, intentions were made apparent, as he leaned in, legs apart, one in front of the other, and offered her his hand most cordially.

She took it. He led her, gently, to the dance floor, placing his hands about her chastely. She breathed him in; he smelled of forests. The music began.

Penelo was in her element; had you asked any of the onlookers, they probably would have said she _was_ an element; she danced like a flame, spun and twisted, a spark that was gliding and jolting in equal measure. The dress reinforced her dancer's posture, making her aware of her own body in a way her loose fitting dancer's attire never had. And this man! He led her effortlessly, his hands barely touching her, but seemed always to be just close and far enough at the right moments. Together they looked like a shooting star, his dark costume chasing after her bright one as they rotated about the floor. The man said nothing, as if he knew it was her time to feel, to really feel, and that it wasn't so much about parties or people or grandeur as it was about capturing an instant where a girl is doing something she truly loves. The instant seemed endless; by reveling in it, she became _part_ of it, losing and gaining the essence of the moment for herself. She felt so light, so light, so real and unreal at once.

The music ended. She pulled away; she knew, somehow, that one dance was enough.

"Thanks. For the dance. And about the sun princess thing, too, I mean. I never pictured myself that way," she said.

"Tonight, we are who we want to be." Gingerly, as if her hand were made of glass, he brought it before lips and left a delicate impression upon it. His lips were softer than they had any right to be.

Before she walked away, she considered, for a moment, who this gentleman was beneath his mask. She only really knew _one_ Rozarrian, and he could have been him, she supposed.

"Who are you? Are you A-" before she could even let her tongue touch the roof of her mouth and form an _ell_ sound, he shushed her.

"Shh, no speculations. I think I see your next dance partner over by the cellist. Better catch him before he is spirited away," he said, motioning to her right. Vaan stood, confused and bewildered, in the spot beyond. Something in Penelo's heart buckled, and she felt pulled to him.

"I think you're ri-" she turned to look at the unknown dancer again, but he was gone, woven back in to the strands of guests.

She looked around one more time and then walked over to the orchestra. Vaan saw her, his face alight and bashful.

"Penelo, I didn't mean what I said - well, I meant something, but it didn't come out the way it was supposed - well, you know," he began. "Right?"

"I do," she said.

"I'm sorry. How can I make up for it?" he asked, boundlessly earnest.

"You know how," she answered, a playful smile on her lips.

"I think I do," he said, and he led her back onto the floor, embracing a new sort of partnership.

* * *

"Have you ever seen a male viera?" Vaan asked Penelo some time after they had taken a break from dancing.

"Can't say that I have," she replied, glass of punch in hand. "But they have to exist, right? Or else how are viera babies made?"

"'Cause look at that guy over there," Vaan pointed right at the man. Russet-colored ears stuck out clear as day on a man dressed as some sort of faun; he was accompanied by a female in a floor-length dress with a large updo.

The man noticed, despite being several meters away. He began to walk towards them.

"Crap," said Vaan, cursing keen viera eyesight in his head.

"Haven't you ever been taught that pointing is rude, young man?" he asked, head cocked, diction sounding as curt as any female viera Vaan had ever heard.

"Erm, sorry. Lesson learned."

"Good," the man replied, turning with his partner and leaving. In haste, they bumped into a gaggle of Rozarrian noblewomen on their way out.

"Seriously, you'd think a leading man would be treated with more respect," he muttered beneath his breath. "Now let's go home before these ears fall off."

* * *

It's so _easy_ here, thought Ashe.

She stood on the balcony beyond the ballroom, taking in the night. Even the scent of flowers was calming. The aroma, mixed in with the light of lanterns and stars, brought her back to a time when she could actually indulge in such _fêtes_. That was years, revolutions, lifetimes ago. She had enjoyed herself tonight – the hours had slipped, like sand flowing out of her hands.

She didn't want to admit it, but she admired the Rozarrians for what they had built. For the security they had cultivated, like a well-tended garden. It inspired her in a way she would have to think about in the coming days. What would she cultivate? What could Dalmasca grow?

"Dalmasca's desert bloom," called a silky voice at her neck, "I must admit, I like your costume best of all."

Ashe was staring into the valley and gardens below. The sun would rise soon. She tilted her head up slightly, not turning. That voice – the moniker – could only mean one man stood behind her.

"Oh? And why is that?" she asked calmly. She had recalled the tailor making some sort of remarks about meaning, but she also recalled reviewing notes from a meeting with a Bhujerban delegation at the same time as her fitting. It was a blur in her memory, but she did not need him to know it. She knew what she looked like, though – she had a private moment to herself before she had left for the evening. Her dress was white, and her skirt's drapery was in the shape of a many-petaled flower.

"For what it implies, of course. You, my dear, are the Cereus flower," he purred at her ear, "and its nickname just so happens to be the Queen of the Night."

"I should have pegged you as a lover of botany," she replied, placing her hands upon the wrought iron of the balcony. "And so you choose it as your favorite only because of its title?" she teased in a low voice, now speaking figuratively. She was not surprised he would turn her fashion choice into an allegory for the worries of most high ranking women – that they are loved only for their positions.

"I adore it because it is elusive. Because it is fleeting. Only the devoted will wait for it, will hold out for the one midsummer's night each year, when a flower that remains inconspicuous becomes something entirely unexpected. For one night, it is utterly exquisite," he reached out and put a gloved hand upon hers. "I do not mean to imply that you are anything but exquisite every other night of the year, but I trust, based on what I've told you about your dress, that you agree that tonight is a night for wondrous things?"

She continued to stare into the horizon. She didn't want to turn, because if she did, he would see the faint blush that had settled onto her cheeks at his words. She never meant for her dress to imply so much – or did she? Some part of her psyche, a small nook of her brain, had listened to the explanation the tailor had made. Ashelia inhaled a slow, deliberate breath. Rotating slightly, she saw his silhouette. His mask glinted in the balcony's light.

"And so that is what you wish for? Fleeting, wondrous happenings?" she asked, turning to face him.

He inclined his head slightly, and she watched his lips form a crooked smile.

"One would think so, based on that explanation," he breathed. His face was only a moment's pause away.

She wanted to lean in; she wanted to give in to the calm, to the moment, to her desires. Not to love, but perhaps to ephemerality. Just then, however, she saw a swirl of change in the sky's hues, and a thought occurred to her. A memory she had overlooked and almost lost from the day of the fitting sparked in her mind. With clarity of purpose, she spoke:

"Fitting as it is," she said, taking a step away from him and matching his smirk, "night-blooming Cereus closes with the first light of dawn."

The first rays of the sun were, in fact, seeping in over the horizon line. Looking at her still from beneath his mask, he let a deep chuckle emerge in waves.

"You have done your homework!" he remarked, amused. In a fluid step he bridged the gap once more, and in another sweeping move, cupped her chin and stroked her lower lip with his gloved thumb. Ashelia didn't fight it - she didn't feel handled, but rather graced by something as gentle as wind, as warm as sunlight. "It is fine by me, dear Ashelia. I should like to take my time falling in love with you."

That said, he gently let her go and strode confidently back into the ballroom.

People, she thought, were much more complicated than flowers.

* * *

Natural light began to trickle in to the ballroom, and somewhere, someone decided it was high time for masks to come off and identities to be revealed.

Vaan, Penelo, and Ashe knew each other by costumes already and found each other easily. Basch had spotted Vaan based off of body language and had brought Larsa along to greet everyone in a private corner.

"Excited to get rid of those?" Penelo teased, flicking Vaan's ruffles.

"Damn right I am," he replied.

"I hope you haven't been drinking," Ashe teased Basch. The Judge Magister was slightly red-rimmed about his eyes.

"Nay," Basch replied quickly, trying to save face. "Though I could swear I saw a male viera. What a curious sight."

"Hey! We saw him too! Boy was he uppity," Vaan complained. "That reminds me – were Balthier and Fran invited?"

"So he wasn't just a liquor-induced apparition?" Basch asked, still wondering about what he had seen.

"I thought you said you hadn't been drinking!" Ashe exclaimed; she, too, ignored Vaan. Basch contorted his lips and looked away. She would have said more, but someone was shouting nearby.

"My _diamonds_!" cried the Rozarrian noblewoman who had been fondling Larsa hours before. "Someone has stolen my priceless _diamonds_!"

A collective realization hit them like a cold ocean wave.

"That," Penelo finally said, "was definitely not a male viera." She was glad that _she_ was not the one stealing diamonds, at least not this time.

"Can't stop the inevitable. It was her fault for wearing it out in the open, I guess," said Vaan.

"What of Al-Cid?" Larsa chimed in suddenly. "I haven't seen him all night!"

They all looked at one another. A few of them had the beginnings of a private smile on their faces. Before any of them said anything, one of Al-Cid's lady-servants walked by. Larsa hailed her.

"Excuse me, miss. Where is Al-Cid Margrace?" Larsa asked politely.

The girl looked confused. "Master Margrace did not tell you? He is not in attendance this evening. He was unable to leave certain political engagements in the southern provinces."

"_He's what?_" Ashe, Penelo, and Basch all asked at once. "Then _who…_" they all exclaimed again, in unison.

The three of them blushed fiercely. A heavy, pregnant silence ensued.

Larsa looked up, thoughtful. "Then might I suggest we retire for the evening?"

Larsa didn't need to ask twice.

* * *

WOO! Thanks for reading my cracktastic fic. I would like to thank kissychan1101 for being awesome and inspiring me with prompts, most of which I was able to incorporate (I felt I didn't know enough about Kytes and Filo to add 'em in, and our challenge got pushed back months after the due date so #10 seemed more of a guideline than anything):

**1. It has to be post-game.  
2. It has to involve a non-canon pairing for each canon pairing involved.  
3. It has to take place in the Ambervale in Rozzaria.  
4. All of the main characters have to star in it.  
5. Al-Cid must try to get into the pants of the leading female character...or  
the leading MALE character (YAOI AHOY!)  
**6. Kytes and Filo must be present.  
**7. Humiliate at least one character before the entire Clan Margrace.  
8. Balthier must crash through the Fourth Wall at least twice, and it must be  
obvious that he's playing the 'leading man' bit for laughs.**  
9. Despite this being a WAFF piece, it must have a small element of something  
unconventional (as in: it's categorized as romance/mystery or humor/horror).  
10. It has to be twenty five hundred words long.


End file.
